


O Christmas Tree

by insistentbass



Series: Festive Flings [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, But he's also a big softy, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Dominant Sherlock, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Time, M/M, Mild Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Post-Season/Series 04, Prompt Fic, Public Sex, Tree Sex, Trees, never thought i'd use that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28056627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: 'He swallows and reminds himself that the security cabin isn’t far away and he has his phone, there’s no real way he’s going to get knocked off by a serial killer who stalks Christmas tree farms. Somehow those thoughts aren’t that comforting. They’ve been to weirder cases, after all.'I couldn't fine another summary line that wasn't smutty or a plot spoiler. But there is smut. Christmas Tree PWP.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Festive Flings [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042989
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	O Christmas Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I guess I'm never hearing that song the same again.
> 
> Pure smut. First time things. Trees. Unawares security guard I have named Dave in my head. You get the gist.
> 
> AGAIN this isn't technically a ficlet because, I can't help myself.
> 
> (If the challenge creator is here and wishes me to remove these, please let me know. I am aware I'm essentially breaking the only real rule! I apologise!)
> 
> B x

“What about this one?”

John watches as Sherlock narrows his eyes, contemplating the specimen before them. This is the eleventh Christmas tree they’ve stopped to look at, Sherlock rejecting each one based on factors John isn’t privy to. And to be honest, really doesn’t care about.

They’d left Rosie at home, mostly due to the cold temperatures and fading winter light, but also because the task at hand would be completed much quicker just the two of them. Or so John had thought. What Sherlock had failed to mention was that he’d never picked out a Christmas tree before, and he also had very very specific parameters that said tree had to fulfil.

“Not enough branches” Sherlock says, waving his hand and dismissing John’s latest suggestion.

Darkness is swiftly creeping over the forest. They’d driven nearly an hour to find the place, a clearing in the middle of some woodland, lit by strings of yellow globe lights. Pretty, but not really efficient with afternoon turning to early evening around them. The few people who had been hovering around browsing had already made their choices and left long ago, leaving just the two of them and the bored looking old security guard sitting in a booth at the entrance.

“You can’t be serious, John” Sherlock snaps, as John opens his mouth to suggest the gigantic mass of needles to his left.

“Sherlock, we’ve been here for nearly two hours. If I see another tree I’m going to cancel Christmas altogether”

Sherlock raises an amused eyebrow at him but carries on regardless, dodging through rows of trees, measuring them with odd arcs of his body, even sniffing some of them. If he didn’t know the man better, John would say he’d finally snapped. In actuality, the degree of care and interrogation given to each spruce was a result of this year being their first Christmas back at Baker Street together. Just the three of them – and Mrs Hudson, of course – since John had finally realised what a blind idiot he had been for years, and pressed Sherlock against the fridge one hot summer afternoon.

John looks to the stars, counts to ten and breathes. Sherlock continues on through the shadowy towering evergreens, weaving in and out so fast John has trouble keeping up. He gets out his phone for a second to check that Mrs Hudson hasn’t messaged (they have been rather a long time, after all), but his screen is blank. When he looks up again, Sherlock is gone.

“Sherlock?” He calls into the suddenly never-ending shadow.

There are footprints in the dirt that seem to disappear into a group of trees to John’s left. He calls out one more time, hoping for a response. None comes. John swears under his breath, cursing himself for ever mentioning to Sherlock that they should have a real tree this year. Reluctantly he follows the impressions in the mud that seem to lead to nowhere, pushing aside prickling branches.

“Ow, Jesus Christ” John hisses as a particularly lively arm of needles springs back into his face.

The string of cute but ultimately functionless lights seems to have ended, and suddenly everything is a bit dimmer than it was a couple of minutes ago. Less Christmas cheer land and more murdering psychopath playground. John’s sure he’s seen a film with this plotline, following the one character that always splits off from the group and gets killed first by their own idiocy.

Just as he’s realising he may indeed be that unlucky victim, twigs snap behind him. John spins around, but only inky black and imposing firs greet him. He swallows and reminds himself that the security cabin isn’t far away and he has his phone, there’s no real way he’s going to get knocked off by a serial killer who stalks Christmas tree farms. Somehow those thoughts aren’t that comforting. They’ve been to weirder cases, after all.

“Sherlock!” John calls again, this time louder.

The periods of silence are almost creepier than the slight rustling he can hear. Almost. For a moment John regrets getting out of the habit of taking his gun everywhere, just the weight of it would be comforting. As that thought occurs to him, the ominous noise gets louder and closer, the direction indeterminable in the acoustic oddness of tightly packed trees.

Suddenly there are arms around him, holding his chest tightly from behind and pressing a gloved hand over his mouth. John panics for an entire moment, struggles and grunts behind the leather, until he recognises the press of the body behind him and the smell of Sherlock’s aftershave.

“Quiet, I don’t want to alert the security guard”

John’s breath huffs out of his nose in short bursts, bringing his heart rate back down as he relaxes a a little in Sherlock’s grip. He nods his compliance, and the hand slips from his mouth.

“Sherlock,” John hisses, chest still constricted by Sherlock’s grip around him. “What in the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, John feels soft lips at his ear, kissing the small raised bone there before sucking lightly on his ear lobe. Immediately John’s knees go a little weak, and he’s thankful for the strong arm braced across his torso, giving him stability.

“Seriously?” He breathes, as Sherlock’s other naked hand begins to unbutton his jacket.

“Problem?” Sherlock asks against John’s neck, scraping teeth there.

Many, many problems. Somehow though they’re all quickly disappearing like the white clouds of breath forming from his lips. There’s no one else around, and the security cabin is that far away now they can’t even see the light from it. The risk is minimal, but it’s enough to add an extra element of heat to the situation, warming the depths of John’s belly as Sherlock tugs his shirt out from his jeans.

John’s quiet groan is taken as permission, and the sound of his belt being unbuckled is incredibly loud in the quiet around them. He rolls his head to one side against the pillow of Sherlock’s scarf, giving the man better access to the stretch of skin there. Teeth and tongue leave their marks on his skin, Sherlock sucking at the hollow under his jaw and at his pulse. Those hands work their way under John’s shirt, digging nails into his abdominals and rolling his nipples hard between fingertips.

Sherlock’s warm breath in his ear is more of a turn on than it should be, a stark contrast to the cold air. Soon John’s trousers and boxers are being pushed down over his hips, pooling at his ankles as he’s laid bare. Exposed and naked, in the middle of a forest of dying trees.

“Sherlock – “ He begins, abruptly aware of his vulnerable position.

“It’s okay, John” Sherlock soothes, placing feathery kisses over the bruises he’s painted on sensitive skin. “I checked, there’s no one around, and it would take the guard at least nine minutes to reach us”

Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it. John rolls his eyes at the darkness, those words not entirely reassuring but at least good enough to make him forget about the potential charge for indecent exposure. Sometimes Sherlock’s ability to make ridiculous calculations in his head comes in useful. He rolls his hips back in encouragement as Sherlock’s fingers hover over his cock, wordlessly waiting for consent before they wrap around him.

“You really are – “ John bites back a moan as Sherlock smears pre-come over his head and begins to move his hand purposefully slowly. “– _surprising_ , sometimes”

There’s a low chuckle in his ear, the vibration of it going straight to John’s balls as they tighten and ache for touch. Sherlock’s own pelvis shifts a little behind him and the hardness in his trousers brushes torturously against John’s buttocks. The sensation of cotton against his bare freezing arse makes him push into that hand, goosebumps prickling his flesh.

They’ve never gone further than having their hands and mouths on each other, the fragile newness of this element of their relationship still a little breakable. But John can’t help the neediness that seems to be radiating from the small of his back all the way to his very core, a certain kind of aching that he’s not really felt before. The breaths against his ear are becoming faster and more forced, increasing with every movement of John’s hips.

Stability is suddenly lost as Sherlock’s arm moves away from his chest and John’s own grip on that steady limb is forced to drop, falling uselessly to his side. Long slender fingers come to rest on the edge of his upper thigh, hesitant for a moment. John tries desperately not to buck into Sherlock’s other palm, still wrapped around his cock and moving far too slowly. There’s nothing to hold onto now, so John reaches behind blindly to find the edges of Sherlock’s coat, twisting his fists into the wool.

“God, Sherlock,” He’s breathless, and embarrassingly wanting in the crisp night air. “Come on, _please_ ”

Apparently, that’s all the encouragement the other man requires. Sherlock emits a small needy sound and moves his hand between them, palm squeezing at the muscular flesh of John’s buttocks. His thumb slides tentatively towards that gap between his cheeks, following the line carved there, gently at first and then becoming more insistent, pushing further into it.

They’re really not prepared for this right now, stood in the middle of a woodland, the smell of pine filling John’s nostrils and making him slightly dizzy. Yet he wants it, so badly. The mild danger of doing this here, where anyone could find them, making him even more willing to let Sherlock do whatever the fuck he wants.

There’s a head-rushing dirty moment where John hears Sherlock suck his own thumb into his mouth, coating it with saliva. He nearly finishes right then at the wet sound of it, knowing what the next sensation will be.

“Okay?” Sherlock murmurs into his hair, slickened thumb rubbing tiny circles over John’s hole.

John can’t really form words at the best of times, so he just moans his incitement, doing his best not to push back onto the digit trying to gently ease inside him. Sherlock’s other hand has almost stilled completely, moving intermittently in soft gentle strokes. John’s thankful for it or he might not last much longer, the odd pleasurable burn of being stretched starting to tread the line between pain and gratification.

The fingers twisting in that Belstaff tighten as he takes more of Sherlock’s thumb into him, oxygen forcing from his lips as his muscles get used to the intrusion. Breathy curses are tumbling into the nape of his neck as Sherlock works, and John realises he must be watching himself, that digit disappearing inside of John with more ease now. The control of the other man not to be touching himself is enviable, John can almost taste the want vibrating from Sherlock’s bones, expletives turning to moans as the tight ring of muscle lets him in.

“John –“ Sherlock stills, John’s name on his lips sounding more like a prayer than a question.

“Yes,” John breathes, and pushes back slightly until he feels resistance. “ _Yes_ ”

Sherlock begins to move his thumb slowly inside him, other hand still working John’s cock in long sure strokes. John’s thighs are trembling and it’s a miracle he’s still upright, trying to both move forwards and backwards, unsure as to which sensation he wants more of. The noises spilling from his mouth become less controlled and far more filthy, all consideration for their public display gone. John’s hips move of their own accord and there’s little rhythm to it, Sherlock curling his thumb and pushing into him with more force, palm picking up speed around his straining cock.

John feels the electricity pooling in his belly and sparkling along his skin, pulls Sherlock as close as possible by the corners of his coat as everything spills over the edge and he comes hard into his hand. There’s too much feeling and John can’t distinguish one wave of pleasure from the next, letting it dance through his nerves and shake down his body.

Sherlock’s ragged breathing fills the air around them, John aware of the man reaching into his own trousers and pulling at his own cock, thumb still inside. It takes mere seconds for Sherlock to finish behind him, burying his forehead between John’s shoulder blades almost painfully. For a minute or so they stay like that, sharing the fading moments of ecstasy in the winter wonderland around them.

Gently Sherlock moves his hand away and he’s empty again, aching and a little sore as he lets go of Sherlock’s coat to pull his trousers back up.

“I think we just broke several laws” John says, turning to face Sherlock, whose blush is evident even in the sparse light.

Sherlock huffs a laugh and then kisses him, leisurely and sweetly. John smiles against it, placing small presses of his lips to the corners of the man’s mouth.

“We’d better move, that was slightly longer than nine minutes” Sherlock comments, slipping his gloves back on and taking John’s hand.

John lets Sherlock guide them out of the bustle of pines, somehow finding their original path with ease. They head back, the stars bright in the clear sky above them. It’s almost sickeningly romantic, the definition of Christmas. Oh –

“Hang on, what about the tree?” John stops in his tracks, tugging Sherlock back with his hand.

“I picked out the tree ages ago,” Sherlock smiles. “It’s already wrapped and ready to go”

“You little –“

Of course. The look on John’s face is incredulous but he can’t be mad. Sherlock basically just dragged them into the middle of a makeshift forest to get him off, another experiment into their sexual limitations that John doesn’t mind playing guinea pig for.

They reach the security cabin and pick up the tree, Sherlock paying in cash for what looks like the best of the bunch. Obviously. If the guard notices their overly pink cheeks and John’s ruffled hair he doesn’t say anything, putting it down to the weather rather than the dirty escapade that just went on in the trees behind him. John lets Sherlock drive them back, trying not to fall asleep after the exertion and wondering if he’ll be forever turned on by the smell of pine.

He thinks it’s probably worth it.


End file.
